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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256168">will you be my valentine?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbridgeabledistances/pseuds/unbridgeabledistances'>unbridgeabledistances</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>&amp; ian just wants to be a """normal couple""", (so much fluff), Domestic Fluff, Fluff, LOTS of uncle mickey content in this one, M/M, and also lots of fluff, listen mickey just loves ian SO much, stargazer lilies motherfucker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:20:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,871</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256168</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbridgeabledistances/pseuds/unbridgeabledistances</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickeys eyes scanned to Franny, who was hard at work trying to cut a shape out of a piece of red construction paper, her brows furrowed in concentration.<br/>“Debbie left Franny with me since some rich lady called her with a weekend handywoman emergency that popped up at the last minute, so now I’m helping Franny make her valentines for school,” Ian explained.<br/>Mickey scoffed. “Fucking valentines?”<br/>Ian rolled his eyes as he contentedly started to glue together two pieces of paper. “Yes, Mickey, valentines. You know, those nice things that normal people give to each other on Valentine’s Day, along with a box of chocolates or some shit and a note about how much they love each other—<br/>“Yes, I know what they are, smartass.”<br/>-<br/>or, a valentine’s day countdown fic featuring uncle mickey, homemade cards, and a lot of domestic fluff</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>236</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 5 days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this scenario was just rattling around in my brain so i very speedily wrote it!!! i hope u enjoy&lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a lazy, slow-paced Sunday afternoon at the Gallagher house. Mickey had been lying on the couch passively watching trashy reality TV for god knows how long—and apparently at some point he’d fallen asleep, because now the TV volume was just a low hum, and he was being woken up to the startling crash of the kitchen back door slamming shut, and the rustling of shoes and coats being taken off and discarded by the front door.</p><p>“Alright Franny, let’s set this stuff up on the kitchen table.” Mickey heard Ian’s voice sail across the room, his eyes still closed to block out the cheery sunshine teeming in the living room.</p><p>Mickey tried to doze off again, attempting to block out the bright light infiltrating his eyelids, but it was no use— whatever Ian and Franny were doing, murmuring and clanging in the kitchen, there was no way for Mickey to escape the sound now and drift back into his sunwarmed sleep. He begrudgingly shoved the scratchy crocheted blanket off of his lap, stretching as he rose and stumbled into the kitchen.</p><p>He wasn’t expecting the carnage that he saw when he turned the corner; the kitchen table was covered in an explosion of sheets of multicolored construction paper, all reds and pinks and whites, with tiny multicolored stickers and tubes of glitter and shiny ribbons arranged and spread wide across the countertop, scattered with glue sticks and pairs of scissors and an exploded box of crayons. There was a small mountain of cut-out hearts piled high on the table, smattered with glitter-glue and blocky handwriting.</p><p>Mickey rubbed his eyes, taking in the scene. “What’re you two Picassos up to?” he asked drowsily.</p><p>Ian looked up, his eyes light. “Look who’s awake!” He gestured at the table emphatically, like it was Christmas morning. “Isn’t it great? Me and Franny grabbed all this stuff at the dollar store for less than ten bucks. The glue sticks definitely kind of suck, but I think it’ll get the job done.”</p><p>Mickeys eyes scanned to Franny, who was hard at work trying to cut a shape out of a piece of red construction paper, her brows furrowed in concentration. Ian kept chattering on as he unwrapped another sheath of the paper.</p><p>“Debbie left Franny with me since some rich lady called her with a weekend handywoman emergency that popped up at the last minute, so now I’m helping Franny make her valentines for school.”</p><p>Mickey scoffed. “Fucking valentines?”</p><p>Ian rolled his eyes as he contentedly started to glue together two pieces of paper. “Yes, Mickey, valentines. You know, those nice things that normal people give to each other on Valentine’s Day, along with a box of chocolates or some shit and a note about how much they love each other—”</p><p>“Yes, I know what they are, smartass. Don’t know why you didn’t just buy the little cardboard ones at the store though.”</p><p>Ian smirked, his eyes still focused on the paper beneath him that he was smudging glitter on. “Yeah, well. Franny wanted to make them, and I thought it’d be kind of fun.”</p><p>Just then Franny gasped triumphantly, raising a lopsided and crumpled paper heart up for Mickey to see. “Look, Uncle Mickey! I cut a heart! Uncle Ian showed me how!”</p><p>Mickey raised his eyebrows at Ian, who had a sheepish look on his face. “Didn’t know you had so many hidden talents, Gallagher.”</p><p>Ian flashed a grin. “I used to be really into art class in elementary school, what can I say.”</p><p>Franny looked up at Mickey with wide eyes. “Do you want to make valentines with us? We have to make twenty-seven, because that’s the number of people in my class.”</p><p>Mickey faltered. Sitting here gluing fucking glitter to pieces of paper was not exactly what he’d had in mind as his plans for the weekend…</p><p>“Uh. That’s okay kiddo. I think you two’ve got it covered.”</p><p>Franny seemed to readily accept Mickey’s answer, instantly looking downward again and grabbing a fistful of crayons from the table to continue enhancing her masterpiece. Ian, on the other hand, tore his gaze from his own valentine.</p><p>“Oh c’mon Mick, you don’t wanna help?” Ian asked, his voice goading and his eyebrows raised.</p><p>Mickey rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks but no thanks.” He turned, walking over to open the fridge and grabbing a beer from the top shelf.</p><p>“C’mon, just one valentine. Franny can show you how to cut out a heart shape, right Fran?”</p><p>Franny nodded vigorously. “Yes, I know how!”</p><p>Mickey took a swig of his beer and sighed. “Jesus, fine.” He pulled a chair between Ian and Franny, slowly scraping it on the linoleum, and then perched on the edge uncomfortably. “Alright Franny, show me what you’ve got.”</p><p>“Okay, so the first thing that you have to do is pick which color is your favorite. What’s your favorite color?”</p><p>Mickey had taken another sip of his beer, and now he sputtered slightly. “I don’t know Franny, you pick for me.”</p><p>Franny’s face melted into a pout. “But <em>you</em> have to pick, Uncle Mickey, it’s <em>your</em> favorite color!”</p><p>Ian bit back a laugh, his eyes still bright and cheerful. “Yeah, Mick, c’mon. What <em>is</em> your favorite color? We’ve never gotten this deep in our relationship before.”</p><p>Mickey gulped again from his beer can and flipped Ian off in the process. “I don’t fucking know. Never thought about it before.”</p><p>Franny held the stack of construction paper up to Mickey. “Look! There’s red, and yellow, and blue, and purple, and green—”</p><p>Mickey cut her off. “Uh, give me a green one.”</p><p>Ian smirked. “Green?”</p><p>“Fuck you, it was the first color I thought of.” Of course, that wasn’t really true—if Mickey needed to have a favorite fucking color, it was obviously going to be green, like the green eyes that met his gaze every morning and were the last thing he saw before he went to sleep at night— even if he would never be caught dead admitting that sappy bullshit to Ian.</p><p>Ian looked like he was holding back a smile. “Right,” he mused. “Hey, Franny, pass me a blue paper? Cause y’know, that’s my favorite color.”</p><p>Mickey gently shoved Ian in the square of his chest. “You’re being fucking soft.”</p><p>Ian let a crooked smile burst onto his face. “Yeah, I guess I am.”</p><p>Mickey leaned back in his chair, holding the piece of thick green paper in front of him appraisingly. “Okay Franny, what’s step two?”</p><p>Franny stretched her body across the table to reach for one of the strewn pairs of scissors. “Now, you fold the paper in half, and then you cut out the shape of half of a heart, like this.” She drew an example of the curved pattern on the backside of Mickey’s paper with the tip of her finger. “And then you unfold it and it’ll be a perfect shape!”</p><p>“Sounds easy enough.”</p><p>Mickey took the scissors from Franny’s grasp, and held them up to the paper. It was just a fucking half circle with a little indent at the top— this wasn’t going to be too difficult. Ian and Franny went back to being absorbed in crafting their valentines, while Mickey started to botch and slash at his piece of construction paper.</p><p>When he was finally satisfied he unfolded the shape, the outer shell of the paper falling away. It was… well, it was kind of a heart, with two slanted sides and a wonky top half. It looked more like a blob attached to an angle than anything else.</p><p>Ian looked up from where he was doodling on a glittery heart and snickered.</p><p>“That’s uh… that’s a good first try, Mick.”</p><p>Mickey slammed the piece of paper down onto the table. Fucking arts and crafts, he was never good at this shit even when he was little—he fingers were always too fumbling, too clumsy for him to make anything delicate and pristine. Ian’s hands should have been as ungainly as his, but instead they were quick and nimble, smoothly cutting perfectly-rounded circles and gluing neat lines of glitter.</p><p>Franny noticed that Mickey was done cutting his shape. “Good job Uncle Mickey! Now you just have to draw on it, and put on stickers and glitter.”</p><p>“Yeah Mickey, let’s see those artistic skills.”</p><p>Mickey aggressively flicked some flecks of glitter from the table in Ian’s direction, then picked up a crayon and gripped it with an iron fist. What the fuck was he supposed to draw? This was a valentine for kids at Franny’s school, the fuck did kids like anyways? He started to draw some sort of stick figure, but the arms were too long and the head was too small, so he tried to color over it and make some sort of tree or some shit…</p><p>As Mickey scratched at the paper, he looked over at noticed suddenly how content Ian looked—how blissed out and settled he was, just running a crayon over the colorful paper and shaking bits of glitter onto pools of glue. If Mickey was being honest, he hadn’t seen Ian this light and happy in a while; he’d had a hunch in his shoulders for months after the wedding and the pandemic and all the minimum-wage job bullshit, the shadows of expectation hanging over him and causing a deflated weariness in his gaze that was impossible to ignore. But right now, Ian looked like he was having as much fun as Franny was, practically vibrating with satisfaction as he put the finishing touches on his drawing and reaching to place his completed valentine in the growing pile.</p><p>Mickey snatched the paper out of Ian’s hand, slightly crumpling it around the edges. “Wait a second. How the fuck did you do that?”</p><p>The valentine was immaculate, the heart symmetrical and traced in a thin outline of glitter. In the center of the paper there was a perfect little cartoon of a dog in a top hat, with an air bubble that read “Happy Valentine’s Day.”</p><p>Ian shrugged. “Watched a lot of cartoons when I was little. And I’ve always kind of liked to draw.”</p><p>Mickey shoved the valentine back in front of Ian. <em>Goddamn perfect fucking husband who’s good at fucking everything</em>. He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, suddenly losing all motivation to play along.</p><p>Ian smirked, then reached to rest a hand on the back of Mickey’s neck. “Giving up already?”</p><p>Mickey rolled his eyes. “Fuck you, Gallagher.”</p><p>Ian’s smile just widened. “Here, how about I cut the fucking shapes and you glue stuff onto them. That’d still help me and Franny a lot, right?”</p><p>Franny nodded. “It’s okay Uncle Mickey, I was bad at cutting the shapes too at first.”</p><p>Mickey huffed. Okay, so maybe he was horrible at this shit, but the least he could do was suck it up for Franny’s sake. “Fine,” he muttered, and grabbed a glue stick and a bottle of glitter.</p><p>A few minutes passed and they settled into a comfortable silence, enveloped in the sound of the scissors gliding and Franny scribbling on paper.</p><p>Suddenly, Franny looked up as Mickey reached across the table to grab a pad of stickers.</p><p>“Hey Uncle Mickey, what do you and Uncle Ian do for Valentine’s Day?”</p><p>Mickey didn’t really know how to answer that question— he darted a glance over at Ian, trying to signal as much. Could you ruin the spirit of Valentine’s Day for kids in the same way you could fuck up Christmas? “Uh, nothing really.”</p><p>Ian chimed in. “We used to like Valentine’s Day when we were little like you Franny, but now that we’re big we don’t really celebrate it. Right Mick?”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>Franny’s brows were furrowed again, this time in contemplation. “But. You love each other, right?”</p><p>“Sure, Franny. But we don’t need a special day for us to remember that,” Ian explained.</p><p>Franny seemed appeased enough by that answer to resume her drawing. “You don’t give each other valentines or candy or anything?”</p><p>Mickey almost laughed. Of course he and Ian had never celebrated fucking Valentine’s Day; if he was being honest, he didn’t remember even really <em>thinking</em> about Valentine’s Day before now, other than it being a day when Mandy came home crying in middle school because the boy she liked didn’t ask her out, or buying all the half-priced chocolates in red and pink wrappers at the drugstore a week later with his brothers. With all the shit in his life the past few years, frilly fucking holidays like Valentine’s Day were just… not on Mickey’s radar.</p><p>But maybe— maybe this year was different. This year, for maybe the first time in his life, Mickey felt secure and steady in a way that he never had before, like the ground was solid beneath him and wasn’t going to cave in at any minute. He had a fucking husband that he loved—why couldn’t they celebrate Valentine’s Day like a normal goddamn couple? Ian didn’t seem to be too bothered that they both didn’t give a fuck about the holiday, which was all the more reason to catch him off guard. He kept pressing stickers down onto the construction paper, his mind starting to churn.</p><p>By the time they’d made the twenty-seven fucking valentines, Mickey had made up his mind; this year, he and Ian were going to celebrate Valentine’s Day.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1 day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i guess i am continuing this!! this lil countdown has been very fun and quick to write, will post the conclusion this week:)</p><p>hope u all are having a sweet valentine's week!&lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ian didn’t really remember ever celebrating Valentine’s Day for real—not like everyone else in middle school or high school, like when Lip was off buying flowers for girls or Mandy was trying to get the guy she liked to ask her out—but he definitely remembered celebrating it as a kid, when he’d have to scrounge up some shoebox from under his bed and bring it to his overcrowded classroom to cover with colorful construction paper and make shitty valentines to swap with his friends. Those were the days when Frank was around some, and so was Monica— he remembered one year, when he was maybe 5 or 6, when Monica was there and he had come home with a thin pink slip of paper from his teacher saying that he needed to bring in valentines for his class. Monica had whisked him down the street to the dollar store where they’d ransacked the rickety shelves of all the art supplies they could carry, and then they sat at the kitchen table for hours gluing glitter to cut-out hearts.</p><p>So maybe that’s why Ian’s heart had melted last Sunday, when Franny had mentioned that she needed to buy valentines for her class at school— Ian knew it was stupid, or whatever, but he knew how far a few solid childhood memories could go in this neighborhood, how those types of moments were the stuff you lived on for years afterwards when things got harder and darker. So while he’d been caught up in so much shit lately, for a couple of hours on that Sunday afternoon all Ian wanted was for Franny to soak up that feeling like a sponge—to make memories with her like the good ones that he’d had with Monica, the ones that stood out and burned in his chest like a hot branding iron when he remembered them.</p><p>And then a yawning, sleep-soft Mickey had stumbled into the kitchen, and the three of them were nestled beside each other at the table doing fucking arts and crafts; and for some reason it made Ian’s blood run hotter than usual, and got him thinking about how fuck it, he <em>wanted</em> to give Mickey a Valentine’s Day this year— not in the weird, heteronormative bullshit way, but in the way that he could just kind of… show Mickey how much he meant to him, how Mickey still made his heart feel like it was going to explode out of his ribcage even after the years they’d been together. This was the longest time that he and Mickey had ever been together consecutively, the longest time they’d slept side by side before something dark curled its fingers around them and pulled them apart, and he wanted to do something to acknowledge that— something to start their forever, as fucking cheesy as that sounded.</p><p>Of course, Mickey had no concept of Valentine’s Day or any of that shit, which made the whole thing all the more perfect— Ian wanted to catch him off guard, wanted to pull them both out of the funk that had been hovering over them for the months after the wedding, when everything turned brittle and stale once the bills started to pile up. They were better now—or at least they were trying to be— but it still meant something that half of their time being married had been spent navigating a fucking global pandemic and squabbling with each other and barely making ends meet.</p><p>So now it was the day before Valentine’s Day, and Ian was standing on a busy Chicago street corner in the bitter cold, watching the bundled passersby briskly walk by to scramble inside and stave off the chill. Ian hadn’t been to this neighborhood since his days working at the club, or maybe once or twice when he was hanging out with people from the youth center; the pristine glass storefronts with minimalist displays nearly blinded Ian’s eyes after the past ten months of being accustomed to the crumbling paint-chipped architecture of the South Side. But he was here on a mission; in front of him stood the high-end, boujee as fuck florist’s shop, one of the top-rated ones in the city according to the quick search he’d plugged into his phone.</p><p>Ian normally didn’t give a shit about stuff like this— to him, a flower was a flower, and a chair for a wedding was just a goddamn chair— but he knew Mickey, for some reason this sappy shit was a whole lot more important to him, no matter how hard Mickey tried to hide it. All the symbols and the fanfare <em>meant</em> something to Mickey—it meant that they’d made it, that they got to have a normal fucking life together, beyond both of their wildest dreams. So if Ian had to brave a stupid, gentrifying flower shop on a chilly Friday afternoon to make Mickey happy, then that was what he was going to do.</p><p>A soft bell tinkled as Ian entered the shop, immediately surrounded by the nearly-bare shelves of minimalist bouquets. The store was incredibly cramped and narrow, with overly-peppy music playing low, and was packed tight with wire-rimmed glasses wearing, re-usable bag toting hipsters standing in a line all the way to the counter. <em>Shit. </em>This line was going to take all day—and who the fuck knew if they even had what Ian was looking for? A looming pang of desperation started to churn in the pit of his stomach as he lurked by the doorway. Fuck it, he had to do this.</p><p>Before Ian really processed what he was doing he was quickly darting past the line, getting a series of dirty looks from everyone he shuffled by.</p><p>“S’cuse me, coming through, floral emergency.”</p><p>Finally, he reached the counter, sliding in beside some girl in her mid-twenties with a punk haircut. “Uh, sorry, can I just ask if they have what I’m looking for real quick?”</p><p>The girl rolled her eyes. “If you’re desperate enough to cut the fucking line, I’d say you’re worse off than I am. Men are fucking clueless.”</p><p>Ian nearly grimaced, but tried to twist his face into a soft, grateful smile. “Thank you.” He turned to the cashier at the counter, a dude with a man bun and a floral button-up shirt who looked pretty amused by this whole situation.</p><p>“It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, honey. Everyone here is in a floral emergency.” The cashier sighed, looking Ian up and down appraisingly. “What’re you looking for?”</p><p>“Uh. I think they’re called… stargazer lilies? The ones that bloom at a specific time, or something? We were supposed to have them at my wedding, but then the venue got burnt down by my husband’s homophobic father, so we kind of had to pull the whole wedding thing together on short notice— it’s kind of a long story, but I really, <em>really </em>need to get these flowers for Valentine’s Day.” Ian leaned in close over the counter, hoping he didn’t look too desperate. “It’s our first one together and it’s been a fucking shitty year and it would just— it would mean a lot.”</p><p>Ian finally exhaled, and hoped by some miracle that this cashier, or someone in the fucking universe, would take pity on him.</p><p>The cashier pulled his glasses down to the bridge of his nose, tapping away at the iPad on the counter before glancing up. “Hmm. I’m sorry honey, you’re fresh out of luck. Those lilies bloom in the summer mostly, and no one around here really has them. You could maybe check one of the little flower shops down the street, they do special orders and stuff this time of year—but I’ll be honest, I don’t know if you’re gonna get these flowers by tomorrow.”</p><p>Ian felt disappointment bubble up inside him. Of fucking course there were none of these obscure flowers in Chicago the day before Valentine’s Day— he’d had this grand idea of giving Mickey a perfect Valentine’s Day, of starting off on the right foot, and he still put this shit off until the last minute and couldn’t give Mickey what he deserved.<em> Mickey would’ve never made this mistake.</em></p><p>Ian cleared his throat. “Shit. Well, uh, thanks anyways.”</p><p>He turned, heading for the door and getting ready to be assaulted by the bitter cold again. Okay, there were a couple flower marts down the street, he could try that— but he had a sinking feeling that the results would be the same, that he’d be left empty-handed tomorrow with nothing to give.</p><p>
  <em>Okay. Focus. I’ve gotta plan a bunch of shit for Valentine’s Day by tomorrow.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What would Mickey do?</em>
</p><p>**</p><p>The flat drone of the dial tone made Mickey’s head buzz, the same dull vibration he’d heard dozens of times that week. Finally, he heard the click of someone answering.</p><p>“Hello, this is Sizzlers, how may I help you?”</p><p>“Hi, it’s, uh, it’s Mickey Milkovich. Again. I’m just checking in one more time to make sure we’re all good for tomorrow?”</p><p>There was a silence on the other end of the line, like the hostess was taking a moment to compose herself. “Yes, Mr. Milkovich. Since this is the… seventh time you’ve checked in in the past week, I believe, everything has definitely been arranged as you requested.”</p><p>Mickey cleared his throat. “Uh, good. Thanks. We’ll be there for our reservation at 8.”</p><p>He clicked his phone off and flung it down onto the bed. It had been nearly a week since he’d decided he was going to try to give Ian some kind of Valentine’s Day like the normal fucking couple Ian wanted to be, but he had to admit, this shit was hard work; he had to think of the perfect place he wanted them to go, had to call and make a reservation and arrange everything perfectly— and then there was the matter of deciding what to get Ian, because apparently married people also got each other fucking gifts on Valentine’s Day, which sounded like overkill to him. He’d been scrolling through Buzzfeed “Valentine’s Day Gift” lists for the better part of the afternoon, and even snuck some of Debbie’s chick magazines into the bathroom to sift through articles like “Ten Things to Get Your Man for Valentine’s Day” or “Best V-Day Gifts for Newlyweds.” Finally, after fucking days of plans stirring in the back of his mind, Mickey finally thought he had all of the pieces together; the reservation was made, the timing was set, and he’d even stopped by some fancy fucking chocolate shop on the other side of town on the way home from the Alibi earlier that afternoon.</p><p>Everything was planned—now there was just one thing left to do.</p><p>Mickey grabbed the crumpled piece of paper he’d set on the bedside table, the one he’d been staring at all week. <em>Fuck it.</em> He grabbed a discarded pen from the windowsill, from the collection of pencils that Ian kept next to his notebooks.</p><p>Mickey sighed as he put the pen to the paper. <em>Now comes the hard part.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>up next, valentine’s day! to be posted on friday:)</p><p>this has been such a fun &amp; fluffy little fic to write, i hope u enjoyed&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 0 days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>valentine’s day is here!! this is maximum fluff lol i hope u enjoy&lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mickey sauntered into the Gallagher house, rubbing his hands together to warm them as he quickly slammed the front door shut to block out the bitter cold. He shuffled his coat off his shoulders, trying to go through the same mental checklist he’d been that had been running through his mind all week. <em>Okay. 7 o’clock. </em>He was right on time— now he just needed to shower, and put on a clean fucking shirt before he tried to get Ian to come with him…</p><p>Mickey turned the corner into the living room— and was met with Ian standing there, leaning against the back of the couch with his hands behind his back. The lights in the living room were dim, and the house was surprisingly silent for a Saturday evening; if Mickey didn’t know any better, it seemed like someone had coordinated having all the Gallaghers out of the house at the same time this evening.</p><p>His eyes flickered to meet Ian’s, who was watching him carefully and steadily from across the room, his gaze soft but piercing.</p><p>Mickey’s heart instantly started to thud, and he wasn’t really sure why— maybe it was the intensity of Ian’s gaze, or maybe it was the fact that all of a sudden, all his scheming from the past week had finally caught up with him. What if what he was planning for tonight was too much, what if Ian fucking hated it? Mickey tried to swallow down the anxiety gnawing at his insides, willing his heartbeat to settle back down to an even tempo. <em>Be cool</em>.</p><p>“Hey. Where is everybody?” Mickey asked, feigning nonchalance as he pulled off his shoes.</p><p>Ian gave a sheepish smile. “Might’ve suggested that they find other places to be tonight.”</p><p>Mickey smirked. <em>Fucking sap.</em> “Oh yeah?”</p><p>Ian’s gentle, closed-lip smile grew a little wider, and then he pulled a bouquet from behind his back, his gaze still hesitant but piercing, a laser beam burning a hole into Mickey’s chest.</p><p>“Happy Valentine’s Day, Mick,” he breathed.</p><p>At first, something deep inside Mickey made him want to squirm out of his skin, made him immediately feel the need to open his mouth to make some quick retort how gay and sappy it was to even think about getting Mickey a goddamn bouquet of flowers for Valentine’s Day, like he was some fucking girl— but before that sentence traveled from his brain to his mouth, Mickey noticed what type of flowers they were and the words got caught in his throat. These weren’t just some cheap fucking flowers Ian got him to try to fulfill a convention, or because he thought that that was what he was supposed to do— these were blue stargazer lilies, the flowers that Mickey had picked out for their wedding before everything went to shit, and all of Mickey’s towering expectations for the day had been forced to crash down and crumble to the wayside. These were flowers for <em>Mickey</em>— these were Ian showing that he listened, that he remembered, that he cared how important this shit had been to him. These weren’t flowers for anyone else.</p><p>Mickey realized he was standing frozen in the middle of the living room with his mouth gaping open for a millisecond too long. He quickly snapped it shut, and put his hand up to his brow like he always did when he was trying to keep his shit together. Ian just kept staring him down, his eyes gleaming as they caught the low light.</p><p>“Got these fuckers special ordered on some sketchy website yesterday,” Ian admitted in a low, throaty voice as he held the lilies out in front of him, rustling the cellophane and paper they were wrapped in. “I was pretty desperate. Cost a shit ton.”</p><p>Mickey cleared his throat. “For someone who didn’t care about all the wedding bullshit, you’ve got a good fucking memory.”</p><p>Ian smirked. “Yeah, well, listening is what marriage is all about, right?” He suddenly slouched slightly, like a weight had appeared on his shoulders. “Listen, Mick— I know you don’t really care about Valentine’s Day or whatever, but the other day with Franny just got me thinking about how I wanted to do something for you, just to say I’m sorry for how tough shit has been lately. M’sorry if you think it’s too… I don’t know, too fucking gay or whatever.”</p><p>Mickey smirked. <em>Fucking Gallagher. </em>He immediately took a long step towards Ian, bridging the gap between them, invading his personal space and tangling their fingers together. Ian’s eyes widened, his lips almost imperceptibly parting in surprise. Their faces were millimeters apart; Mickey could feel the warmth radiating off of Ian’s skin, the space between their lips hanging heavy with tension.</p><p>“Thank you for the goddamn flowers,” Mickey murmured, holding Ian’s heavy-lidded gaze.</p><p>“Welcome,” Ian exhaled, his breath tingling on Mickey’s lips.</p><p>And then Ian’s hands were digging into Mickey’s hipbones, and wrapping around his lower back to pull him in closer, and their lips were meeting with a searing tenderness that almost made Mickey’s chest ache. Their lips crashed together again and again— not like they were building towards anything, or scrambling to get their clothes off and rush into the bedroom like usual— but like everything was wrapped up in this kiss, like everything was pouring out in every press of their lips and every tug of Ian’s teeth at Mickey’s bottom lip. It was a kiss Mickey could lose himself in, with Ian’s hands cradling his neck and pulling on the back of his waist, holding him upright. And he almost would have— if he didn’t suddenly remember all the shit he had planned tonight.</p><p>Ian kept his eyes on Mickey as he pulled away, his pupils blown out and his hands still pinning Mickey into place.</p><p>“What d’you want to do now?” Ian asked in a low voice.</p><p>Mickey tried to hold back the grin threatening to burst across his face. “Well, I’ve got some fucking tricks up my sleeve too, Gallagher, so why don’t you go change into something nice and follow me?”</p><p>**</p><p>“Mickey, where the fuck are we going? It’s freezing, we should’ve asked Debbie to just drive us instead of taking the L.”</p><p>Mickey was briskly walking a couple of paces ahead of Ian like a man on a mission. He turned to Ian and flashed a mysterious smile over his shoulder— without slowing down, much to Ian’s irritation. “Quit your fucking whining. We’re almost there.”</p><p>Ian rolled his eyes, but jogged to catch up with Mickey and intertwined their gloved hands. “Better be,” he mumbled in a voice that was supposed to be annoyed but he knew came out overly fond.</p><p>Mickey just smirked, squeezing Ian’s hand and leaning into the touch.</p><p>Ian didn’t know what the fuck they were doing on this side of town— he and Mickey had never really been over here together, except during that whole shitshow with Byron and the engagement. Mickey definitely had something up his sleeve, but this was… definitely not where Ian had expected Mickey to drag him off to.</p><p>And weirder than that, Mickey seemed nervous— like, genuinely sweaty-palms nervous, which was not a state Mickey was in very often. Whatever the fuck Mickey had planned for them, Ian knew it was a big fucking deal for him; hell, Mickey even acknowledging that today was Valentine’s Day for Ian’s sake felt like a big deal in his book.</p><p>Finally, they turned the corner and Mickey’s pace slowed. They had reached a block of the city known for having a lot of fancy high-end restaurants, but tonight the street was dim— even though it was Valentine’s Day, indoor dining was still banned and all the restaurants on the block were closed, their dark front windows looming and reflecting the streetlights.</p><p>All the restaurants on the block, that was, except one— and it was the place that Mickey was towing Ian towards, to under a classy, warmly-lit sign reading “Sizzler’s Dining.”</p><p>Ian felt something rise in his throat, flushed heat flooding his face.</p><p>
  <em>“Holy shit, I just realized something. We’ve never actually been on a real date.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Bullshit!”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m serious— like, a date where you sit down, and you go to a nice restaurant, and you put on a nice shirt and you, like, eat with utensils.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You wanna do that?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Yeah, why not?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What, like at Sizzler’s?”</em>
</p><p>In an instant, that cool autumn night came flowing back to him— his scrawny, bloodied body hanging off of Mickey’s solid presence beside him, the fuzzy sensation of alcohol warming him from the inside out, making him feel normal for the first time in weeks before everything had split open and gotten messy again. Those were the days when things felt the darkest they had ever been, when all he and Mickey had to cling to was each other— until eventually even that got ripped away too, when Ian was shoved into the backseat of an unfamiliar car with tinted windows, and they settled for the fact that they would never get to have this.</p><p>They’d never had the chance to go on a real date, a date like Ian talked about that night, between then and now— Ian had been locked up, and then Mickey had been, and they’d barely gotten married or been together for long before COVID had hit and everything shut down. Sure, they’d gone to the mall food court a couple of times between Mickey getting released and all the shit with Paula and the engagement and the wedding—but never like this, never here.</p><p>For years the ground had been shifting beneath them, threatening to open up and swallow them whole— but now, they’d finally made it somewhere solid.</p><p>The glowing sign cast shadows onto Mickey’s face—Mickey, who was biting his lips and casting his eyes downward in trepidation, like he was waiting for Ian to say something, to pull something out of him.</p><p>“Mickey, are you fucking kidding me?”</p><p>Ian cupped his hand under Mickey’s chin before Mickey got the chance to respond, shifting his gaze up from the concrete.</p><p>“You said I had a good memory, but I was nothing compared to this. Fucking Sizzler’s?”</p><p>Mickey finally smirked, meeting Ian’s eyes with relief. “Why don’t we go inside.”</p><p>Ian shook his head with disbelief, smiling a crooked smile and playfully shoving his upper arm. “You’re softer than I am, Milkovich.” Mickey just rolled his eyes and reached out to grab Ian’s hand.</p><p>Ian fully expected them to go inside the door and grab some sort of take-out, then head back home to eat and spend the rest of the night in bed— but what Ian couldn’t have imagined, what absolutely no amount of knowing Mickey Milkovich could have prepared him for, was what met Ian’s eyes when they entered the restaurant. The entirety of the main room had been cleared— all the tables and chairs were pushed to the side, except for one single table in the middle of the room covered with a red tablecloth. The lighting was dim, jazz music was playing low, and there were candles flickering around the room; just like the hotel room they’d stayed in for their honeymoon, with the heart-shaped bed and the satin sheets, the whole thing was extravagant and kitschy and tacky beyond belief.</p><p>It was fucking cheesy and over-the-top and ridiculous, like a set straight out of a rom-com; and in spite of it all, Ian felt something welling in his chest. <em>Mickey wanted to give me a normal Valentine’s Day</em>.</p><p>Mickey walked towards the table, gesturing to the table halfheartedly.</p><p>“S’what you wanted, right? Romantic dinner and a box of chocolates and some sappy fucking note?”</p><p>“Mick…” Ian breathed out. He didn’t have the right words to describe what was welling in his lungs, in his throat, on his tongue. He couldn’t imagine how much coordination this must have taken— Mickey had rented the entire fucking restaurant, had made someone set all of this up— and had done it all when Ian didn’t have a goddamn clue. He hoped that his awestruck silence communicated to Mickey what words couldn’t.</p><p>His eyes flickered to the table—there were two place settings laid out, along with two wine glasses and way too many utensils than Ian knew what to do with. On the place setting opposite where Mickey was standing there was a tacky, red heart-shaped chocolate box that almost blended in with the tablecloth—and on top of that, a sealed white envelope.</p><p>Mickey noticed Ian’s eyes lingering. “You, uh. You can open it if you want. I fucking tried my best, but it’s not much.”</p><p>Ian reached deep into his pocket, pulling out a heavy cream-colored envelope.</p><p>“I got you a note too.” He took in a breath, trying to gather his thoughts. “I figured… I don’t know, you were so into the wedding and all that traditional bullshit, and I saw something online that said your first year together you’re supposed to get each other something paper. So, I, uh, I wrote you this.”</p><p>He held the envelope out in front of him—Mickey reached and took it from his hands like it was something delicate. They stood there for a moment.</p><p>“Wanna read them on three?”</p><p>Mickey smirked, breaking heaviness hanging in the air. “What is it with you and countdowns, Gallagher?”</p><p>Ian rolled his eyes, then pulled the chair out from the table and sat down, lifting the envelope from where it was nestled.</p><p>“One… two… three.”</p><p>Ian peeled the seal of the envelope, ripping it open. Inside was a plain white piece of paper, folded in half and clearly worn, like it had been creased and crumpled repeatedly. He unfolded it to a page of chunky handwriting, the ink smudged and blotched in places where Mickey had run his hand over the paper.</p><p>
  <em>ian,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i’m bad with words, and you fucking know that, but you wanted a valentine’s card or some shit so. here it is. not sure what i’m supposed to write, either. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>i always thought i was fucked for life, ever since i was a kid. but for some reason, i couldn’t shake your ginger ass off and it turns out that you were the best thing to happen to me. which you already know, but in case i don’t say it enough- you fucking saved me, gallagher. you’re everything i’ve got, and the happiest fucking days of my life have been spent near your crazy ass. so here’s to lots more years of doing crazy shit together, and making the south side our bitch for the rest of our lives.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>i love you. for better or worse, in sickness and in health, im yours. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>mickey</em>
</p><p>Ian swallowed down whatever he was feeling, and turned his gaze upwards to where Mickey was seated across from him, reading his note that was scribbled on a simple card he’d found at the dollar store:</p><p>
  <em>Dear Mr. Gallavich,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Happy Valentine’s Day. If you’re reading this, this means that I’ve either forced you to, or you’re half as much of a soft motherfucker as I am. There’s nothing that I can put down in paper here that I haven’t said already- that I’ve been in love with you since the first time I saw you, that I always want to be where you are (and I always have). I guess the best way to put it is that no matter how much shit we’ve both been through, for some reason I still trust the universe, because the universe gave me you- whatever it throws at me, it gave me the thing that I needed the most to get through it. You’re everything, Mick- you’re the center of it all, and I feel so lucky every day that we made it here.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>So happy fucking Valentine’s day. I love you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ian</em>
</p><p>Ian rose from his seat—he knew his eyes were shiny, but he really didn’t care—and crossed to where Mickey was sitting, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Mickey stood too, wordlessly wrapping his arms to fold around Ian’s middle. They stood there, in the flickering candlelight, that yes, was nauseatingly corny, but also cast a soft glow across the space, letting Ian sink into the feeling of holding Mickey pressed tightly against him.</p><p>“Mick, we both gave each other the stuff we wanted, but never got,” Ian whispered into Mickey’s hair.</p><p>Ian felt Mickey’s lips curve into a smile against his collarbone. “Yeah, I guess we fucking did.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>ty for reading! this was such a fun little thing to write:)</p><p>happy valentine’s day bbs, i hope u get to celebrate all of the love in ur life this weekend!&lt;3</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank u for reading!! comments/kudos make my heart happy&lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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